


Save Tonight

by markgatiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markgatiss/pseuds/markgatiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft infiltrates a Serbian encampment trying to find his little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> [written in english obviously, any time the english seems broken imagine broken serbian instead.]

Mycroft took his time infiltrating the Serbian camp, he knew that he had to become one of them, fit within their ranks; another face loyal and unquestioning. He was anything but loyal these days, even to his own mother country. With the unfortunate loss of surveillance on his baby brother he had been forced to wade into the enemies’ breeding grounds, searching out his younger, less capable sibling. Sherlock was rash where Mycroft was cunning, manipulative, and contemplative. Running the British government from underground was even more difficult than normal; his normal methods of secrecy unusable in his close quarters to the Serbian diplomats and mobs. Anthea found ways to leave him notes and messages often times hidden in his weekly newspaper or through their brief meetings when his pack made trips to the nearest city for supplies. He would reply to her as quickly as he could letting much of his slack fall on to lesser individuals who did their best to run the government in his stead. He had lost one of his best men recently; Agent 0485 had lost his life attempting to break into the Serbian compound in order to warn Mycroft of the impending terrorist attack on London. He had been forced to watch the man gunned down before him; a good man, a man he had respected; as he pretended to misunderstand the man’s mother tongue.

He found himself sitting now inside a loud cafeteria of sorts, men scattered around, lounging on various objects ranging barrels to makeshift tables. It was too loud and it caused his ever aware mind something of distress as he tried to sort through the various echoing conversations searching for information regarding his brother. The language was loud and crude, not unlike a barking laughter that seemed constant and therefore continuously grated upon his fragile nerves. Each person spoke louder than the next confident that his words were more important and desired than his companions. Mycroft mused that his irritation grew from the constant translating he had to do within his mind; changing one person’s words back to his mother tongue was easy enough but picking out several conversations and attempting to keep up with them in real time after mastering the language less than a few weeks ago gave him migraines regularly. He praised the constant use of alcohol in this hell hole condemning it as a necessary evil to dampen his pains with a semi-euphoric state of being.

When he had first arrived he had suffered much more than a migraine, severely misjudging the Serbians need for violence as a measure of loyalty. He had infiltrated the network easily enough but captured the leader of his division’s attention due to his formal pronunciation and inability to let their incorrect plans move forward without offering some assistance on how they could be improved. It had been his hope that he would gain their respect as a comrade; he found instead he had gained a great deal of disdain instead. The main boss, Mycroft called him The Devil in his own thoughts - aware that it seemed the man had less of a soul than even himself - had called him before the group and ‘tested’ his loyalty. Mycroft had suffered a lashing, his bare, soft back, featuring scars from his earlier MI6 days, cut freshly open by the oiled leather whip that rained down on him. He had taken each lashing with silence, retreating as much as he could into his own mind, repeating as many numbers of PI as he could before he heard the voice whispering to him – distant but not unkindly. Shaking himself, his body sweating and shaking from the recent abuse, his eyes rose up to meet The Devil’s. The other man smiled upon, impressed with his valor and silence, his sickeningly stained teeth, rotting and chipped, shone before him.

“You are a true comrade. You will be my new second in command.” This man, this inhuman being, who had moments before ripped his skin into pieces over a suspicion had now cemented his place within the Serbian group, as a high ranking leader. Mycroft did not allow himself to smile though, his job was barely even started, he needed medical attention, which he would likely not receive, the large gashes on his back likely to fester and scar – all of this to find his brother, and he sincerely hoped he was correct in assuming his brother was captive here.

Events had quickly conspired to offer him more freedom; trips to town alone, used to converse with Anthea; studying their battle plans and maps, filing away the information for when he brought them down to their knees later; joining in officer meal times, listening as the divulged information regarding captives and recent infiltrations. It had been nearly a month before he caught any word of his brother’s whereabouts, in the toilet no less. The pure informality of the place disgusted Mycroft to no end but to piss in such a nasty, unclean area, gave him the distinct impression that upon leaving he would have to endure several STD tests to ensure he hadn’t picked up any diseases while being forced to live under such conditions. His constant need for disinfectant liquid and hand washing had been on hold for so long now Mycroft could examine his own fingernails when he removed his leather gloves and deduce where he had been due simply to the amount of dirt caked around his cuticles. The bathroom was no exception to his nightmare; urinals stained yellow, chunks broken off and laying in the floor broken off during brawls and forgotten until some other time; dysfunctional sinks that refused to give warm water, and simply poured brown liquid when they did work; the toilet itself gave him quite a troublesome time as he had to squat slightly above the toilet seat in order to do his business, refusing to let his arse touch the corroded and icy cold metal. He had been decoded the latest message from Anthea inside a stall, mentally cataloging the coded words inside his own mind ‘palace’, he preferred hard drive, when a small voice sounded outside his door.

“They’ve captured another one.” The sound of a zipper being undone, and shirt rustles filled the silence. “Another what? Infiltrator?” The other man sounded gruff, a practiced indifference to such things. Mycroft deduced the first speaker was newer, less desensitized to the brutal ways of the encampment. The other man was older, late thirties, uninterested but partially invested in the younger man – family ties perhaps.

“Yeah, they say he can tell you your life story.” Mycroft nearly bolted out of his stall, the thought of crushing the man’s windpipe until he gasped out answers nearly over powered him. “They brought him out of isolation today.”

The sound of silence fell as they finished their business and removed themselves from the toilets to continue on their bunkers.  His breathe rushed from his lungs, the carbon dioxide turning into a white mist as it hit the chilled air around him. _Sherlock was here. Sherlock had been found._ Standing up and tucking himself back inside his trousers he attempted to formulate a plan to reach his brother. His mind whirled into action instantly deducting his options and finding the least difficult one with the highest success factor. He’d need to convince The Devil that he was capable of torturing their captives; to wind his way inside in order to run across his brother.

That of course was how he had found his way to the cafeteria, attempting to find which gruesome member of this army would be the best to manipulate. His eyes fell upon a middle-aged gentleman; cold emotionless eyes, a beak like nose, and several facial scars. The man suffered several ailments the most useful Mycroft noted was arthritis, liked from using his hands all day to torture answers out of unlucky captives. Mycroft finished his soup, doing his best impression of an uneducated chav, slurping it from the crudely shaped wooden bowl before wiping his mouth on his sleeve – oh god, he’s sunk so low – and walking, somewhat less coordinated than normal, before settling himself beside the man. It takes him a few moments of up close deductions before he settles on a battle strategy.

“It’s fookin’ cold ‘n ‘ere innit?” Mycroft attempted to slur down his proper speech and appeal to the other man’s blue collar roots. The man grunted in agreement, his focus stayed on the gruel in front of him, his arthritis obviously flaring up in the cold. Mycroft didn’t have time to con this man he looked around making sure that they weren’t being watched before leaning in close to the other man, “I can get you Valium, Cocaine, Vicodin, whatever you want.”

He looked up from his bowl, staring at Mycroft hard from under his fur lined hat, judging him with hard black eyes. “What your price?” The words came out as a statement. A quiet acceptance wrought with nervousness. _He doesn’t trust me yet._

“I have friends, powerful drug dealers. I can give you Hydrocodon right now.” He wanted to make sure this man believe him. If he decided to go to the higher ups Mycroft wasn’t sure he’d have another opportunity. Instead of seeming more relaxed the man got closer hissing at him, “Enuff, I said what price.” Feeling slightly stunted by this uneducated and blunt man he collected himself, “I want to torture the new freak you brought in. The one who can tell stories.”

He watched as the other man stiffened, a tense aura coming down around him. _Sherlock’s deduced this man already hasn’t he? Has he already told this man he is dying of a brain tumor? Explained the headaches aren’t caused by his late nights drinking away his pains?_ “Fine. I take price. Meet t’night. Midnight. Toilets.” He got up quickly but without his initial nervousness leaving the gentlemen to raid his own personal stock of medications and wait out the next hour until he could move forward with his plan.


End file.
